At the bottom of the Earth, on the coldest, windiest, and
darkest continent on the planet, a blithe parade of chubby,
black-and-white figures (looking, from a distance, like tuxedoed
snowmen), moves resolutely inland through forbidding ice crags
and wind-stripped open tundra. They are emperor penguins,
and though their dignified waddle is adorable, there is nothing
cute about their harrowing journey. The only animals able
to survive the Antarctic winter, the emperors are marching
to their ancestral breeding ground hundreds of miles away
from their natural habitat, the sea. They’ve been making this
annual pilgrimage for thousands of years. Before the return
journey in early summer, many will die, and some will have
made the arduous trip for nothing. A harsh and fascinating
tale of survival, March of the Penguins is also a strange
and tender love story.

How the emperors navigate their way to the place of their
birth is a mystery, although there’s some indication that
they use the Southern Lights for illumination or guidance.
Once they’ve arrived on their chosen land, the males engage
in a mystifying search for the ideal mate. After making their
selections, the couples will identify each other (all emperors
tending to look alike) by a unique singing tone to their squawking.
They will remain intensely committed for the duration of the
mating season; the mating dance involves elegant bobbing and
arcing of their surprisingly swan-like necks. In fact, all
the birds’ locomotion is delightful, especially the expressive
use of their paddle-like wings and the way they shoot out
of the water like torpedoes.

Written and directed by Luc Jacquet, and photographed over
the course of an entire year (the film crew used the French
research station for a home base), March of the Penguins
captures the emperors’ extraordinary behaviors and survival
mechanisms, much of which was hitherto unknown information.
The birds rely on altruism and devotion to cope with the inhospitable
terrain: Winds average 160 mph and the temperature can drop
to minus 100 degrees Fahrenheit. The birds suspend their territorial
instincts to huddle for warmth, and the males and females
share incredible sacrifices—such as going two months without
food—in order to protect their eggs and chicks from the cold.
Some will fail, and the grief of a mother penguin who finds
her lost chick frozen to death will allay any ideas that the
animals are operating on instinct alone.

Unfortunately, Jacquet’s narration, spoken by the honey-voiced
Morgan Freeman, is overly emotional and flowery, detracting
from the severe allure of much of the footage, some of which
is absolutely spectacular, such as the undersea sequences
(shot from a submarine) that follow the birds as they dive-bomb
for fish at incredible speeds. And you’ve never seen any shots
of seals, their main predator, like these before: On the hunt,
they are unexpectedly frightening creatures. Which brings
up a caveat: Despite the heart-melting promo photos of baby
penguins, this amazing film is at times too grim for young
children.

Next
Stop Candyland

Charlie
and the Chocolate Factory

Directed
by Tim Burton

For every fan of author Roald Dahl’s work, there are legions
of people who just don’t get it. Generally, these legions
do not include children, who simply delight in his mix of
the grotesque and the outrageously imaginative. Also, Dahl’s
worlds are ones in which bullies and posers get theirs in
the end, and regular kids with no ultra-excellent abilities
are rewarded in ways that only kids would truly appreciate.

Tim Burton, from whose rich imagination springs the latest
cinematic rendition of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,
is probably the only director today (OK, maybe Robert Rodriguez)
with the unique ability to match an innovative visual and
aural sensibility to equally imaginative, yet largely faithful
take on the source narrative. Here is a chocolate factory
in which a choco-addict’s wet dreams are fulfilled, only to
be whetted again and again. Chocolate springs forth from waterfalls,
eddies in lusciously rich pools, glistens and begs to be licked.
This is complete realization of the quest that propels the
beginning of the movie: the desire to win one of only five
golden tickets, each placed within the silver wrapper of a
Wonka Bar, that enable the lucky ones to visit Willy Wonka’s
magical factory.

Burton and screenwriter John August stay more or less true
to the plot, but have made some crucial updates, particularly
in the depiction of the horrid little creatures who, along
with goodhearted Charlie Bucket (Freddie Highmore), obtain
the golden tickets. For instance, the gum-smacking Violet
Beauregarde (Annasophia Robb) is the ultra-competitive doll
child of an equally trophy-minded mother. Perhaps the most
tinkering has been done with Wonka himself. Much has been
made regarding the question of just exactly who Johnny Depp
is channeling in the part. While the actor himself has hinted
about Vogue editor Anna Wintour, others have suggested
far creepier choices, such as Michael Jackson. Regardless
of its source inspiration, Depp’s Wonka is at once wondrous
and weird, fascinating and vastly troubling. In some ways,
this is a far closer representation to Dahl’s protagonist—a
strange yet compelling blend of the genial and the sinister—than
fans could have hoped for.

In other areas, however, Burton and August have made a fatal
error in saddling Wonka with the all-too-familiar backstory,
the autocratic parent—in this case a dentist played by Christopher
Lee!—who squashed any sense of fun or magic in little Willy’s
life. The combination of wishy-washy flashbacks with moments
in which Depp’s performance becomes too highly conceptualized
are the twin, glaring flaws in an otherwise enchanting movie.

For the most part, however, this is a Charlie and the Chocolate
Factory that celebrates the richness of Dahl’s story and
characters, from the wickedly funny Oompa Loompas (all played
by Deep Roy) and their equally zingy production numbers (penned
by Danny Elfman), to the deliciously judicious comeuppances
meted out to Charlie’s four competitors and, yes, to the ramshackle
abode in which Charlie lives with his parents and, famously,
his four bedridden grandparents. As Charlie, Highmore is refreshingly
natural and unforced; when Mike asks what’s the point of certain
candy flavors, Highmore’s Charlie responds to the effect that
there doesn’t have to be a point, without the usual Hollywood
coyness that generally punctuates the moral of the story.
Almost a character in itself, but in a way that only adds
to the entire picture, is the Wonka factory designed by Alex
McDowell; much credit must also go to the cinematography by
Philippe Rousselot. There is utter anarchy on the screen,
and it’s 99-percent delicious.